


Wolves Without Teeth

by lyriumboy



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, I make the rules, I take a hammer and fix the canon, King Alistair (Dragon Age), M/M, Minor Alistair/Mahariel/Cousland, Minor Fenris/Hawke (Dragon Age), Minor Lavellan/Carver Hawke, Nonbinary Character, Reincarnation, Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character, also everyone is trans and gay, theres a lot more minor relationships but it'd fill up the entire page
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-02-07 13:08:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21458554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyriumboy/pseuds/lyriumboy
Summary: Voices born of tragedy are always the loudest, and the blast that destroyed the Conclave at Haven birthed thousands. The only survivor --a seemingly insignificant Dalish elf-- proclaims innocence despite the blood staining their hands. They make a lofty promise to the world, an oaken branch planted for every lost life, and justice for all those affected by the newly created rift in the heavens. Nothing will stop them from leading all of Thedas back into the light, even on wings of death.
Relationships: Falon'Din/Fen'Harel, Lavellan/Dorian Pavus, Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age), Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

** _You shouldn’t be here. _ **

The voice was too soft to be angry, too wrought with concern to be comforting. Not enough to expedite the soul’s awakening. Whatever urgency it wants to convey is lost in the blank, sickly green sea that stretches out before the soul. Its tone muffled by the toxicity of the air, seeping into the ground just before the intended target. 

_ **Da’len, why do you not listen? ** _

The soul flickers in response, emitting the air of a defiant child turning over in bed. Five more minutes, it only wants five more minutes. 

_ **Child, neither of us have the time for this. ** _

Again, there was a flicker, stronger this time. A spark ignites in the shadow between the endless, dark green void, and the voice. As if yawning, the soul sputters and quietly rises on shaky legs. They do not tremble from newness, but from something just as terrifying. With a renewed fire it frantically searches for the source of the voice, bobbing about with an almost laughable panic. 

_Where am I? Why is it so dark? _

_ **There is no time, da’len. I cannot explain. You do not belong here, not yet. ** _

** __ ** _Not yet? What is that supposed to mean? _

A chuckle — or rather the feeling of a chuckle— rushes over the soul as the endless sea is briefly disturbed. By the chuckle or something else, it does not know. Anxiety, pain, irritation; they all rise to choke the souls throat and suffocate it. This is _highly_ unusual, it knows this to be true. Whatever the voice is, it is right above all else. 

_ **There is no time to explain, you must wake up. ** _

** __ ** _ Is that not what I just did?  _

_ **** _ _**No, you must wake into the mortal world. If you do not** they **will come for you, and we cannot have that. **I **will not have that. **_

The urgency that the voice could not get across before washes over the soul as it bobs about in the poisonous green waters. If the soul does not wake soon there will be even worse things than not heeding an elder’s words. Wait, how did they discern a _voice’s_ age? Was age a matter for simple souls to worry about? 

There was another chuckle, this time heard rather than felt, and the soul squinted into the shadows beyond itself. The shadows part slightly, enough for it to glimpse the dull carapace of armor and a large, rusted Sulevin blade. Confusion spreads through the soul as it takes a step backwards through the ankle deep waters. Strangely, there was a sense of calm as they took a glance at the figure once more. 

_ **You must remember in order to wake up. ** _

** __ ** _Remember what? _

_ **The weight of your mother's sword. It no longer hangs at your side. You screamed for them to let you keep it. ** _

A flash of despair ignites the soul. The voice was right. It conjured images of a woman harsh and angular. Her accent had been thick and nearly unreadable at first, especially through the haze of pain. The woman's armor glinted in the firelight while she wrenched the blade from the soul’s hand. The hand that hadn’t been burning a grotesque shade of green. 

The soul thrashes against the onslaught of memories, buckling their knees and sending them crashing into the water, no longer ankle deep. Horrible chittering sounds echo and bounce in their mind, thousands of eyes in the dark as they reach for a figure made of pure light. Someone holds their ruined fist and uncurls each of their stiff fingers. Another voice makes an attempt to soothe as they slip away into the dark. 

Now the water churns above the soul, no more chuckles, no more softness and concern. For a moment they believe they will be consumed by the void, perhaps digested by some unknown beast. Then there is an ache in their brow, and a terrible, all encompassing agony in their left palm as they are thrust back into the mortal plane. 

—————————————————————————————————————————

With a shuddering gasp, Calliope wakes, cold and terrified. As their eyes adjust to the light, it becomes obvious ;whatever happened before their lapse in memory got them into trouble. _Massive_ trouble, to be exact. They make a shaky attempt to shift into a better position and only manage to rest on aching knees. Everything throbs in response, but nothing more than their left hand. Faint green light filters through the dirty bandages. A shock of panic runs through them and straight into their bones, but it isn’t as strong as the chilling breeze that brushes past. The floor beneath their leather shin guards is cold enough to seep through the hide and settle on the inside. Haven hadn’t been this freezing when they walked around just the other day. But perhaps they had lost time. 

With another shudder, Calliope squints into the shadows and finds the tell tale edge of a blade leveled too close for comfort. An annoyed sigh escapes them as they move farther back, only to feel the point of another weapon press into their spine. Someone — possibly one of the guards— clears their throat and mumbles something in Common. The dull ache in Calliope’s head prevents them from putting the words together. Instead, they bow their head and focus their attention on the sharper pain in their left palm. It pulsates with their heartbeat, shining brighter with each thump inside their chest. What in the Creators name had they gotten themself into? Keeper _had_ said they might get themself killed on this excursion, but nothing had prepared them for capture by shemlens. Much less for acquiring some...wound with light emitting from it. 

A horrendous shriek of metal against stone shocks them out of their thoughts. Metaphorical daggers drive into Calliope’s skull at the sound, but they cannot begin to cover their ears, manacles keep their hands firmly in place. A guard chews out another in the dark for leaving a pair of shackles behind the door, no doubt in case the aforementioned ones fail to hold Calliope. They grit their teeth against the agony pounding in their temples and quickly turn their head to the side as the door just beyond them opens unimpeded. Two figures slowly enter, deliberately blocking the view to the outside. Women, from what Calliope ascertains. Their stances carry considerable weight--not from their armor, but something else. Something truly terrible must have happened, and it seemingly was Calliope’s fault. 

One of them walks with a familiar gait, angry and defiant. It’s the short, dark hair, and the thick accent that’s most telling. Yet Calliope cannot parse the words still. There are short taps against the hardened floor as she strides across the room and grabs their left hand. Fear slaps them across the face; a surge of energy crashes over Calliope as they attempt to struggle backwards. Again, there is a blade pressing into their spine, harder this time, more deliberate. 

“I’ll ask you again: _why shouldn’t I kill you now_?” 

It seems the terror was enough to get Calliope’s processing problem ended. They shake in the woman’s gloved hands, breath shallow. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Please, let go of me” 

Their voice sounds so small in the darkness of the room; the mix of Orlesian and Dalish accents were hollow, fake almost. The woman did not let go. Instead, she increases her hold and a pain shoots throughCalliopes wrist. It hits them hard enough to steal the breath from their lungs. They pitch forward with an angry sob, desperately wanting to curl in on themself. 

“You mean to tell me you haven’t a clue what this is?” 

“No! I have no idea what that is, or how that got there!” 

_“Liar!”_

With inhuman force, the woman shoves Calliope back and lets go of them. Pain erupts along their left side as they suck in a deep breath, willing themself not to shed tears. Not here in front of these _shemlen_. If they learned anything, it was that humans were an angry lot, angrier than the Keeper on a bad day. 

Another set of boots make their way across the room towards Calliope. They flinch in anticipation, only to hear a soothing ‘_hush_’. They cautiously glance upwards into the face of a hooded woman — the second figure — her expression unhappy but not towards Calliope. She is close enough they can see the spray of freckles across her pale cheeks, the worry lines etched into her forehead. 

“May I help you sit back up? I promise I won’t hurt you” 

An Orlesian accent, but with something more, a close copy of Calliope’s. They simply nod and let the other woman guide them to a marginally more comfortable kneeling position. All the while, they keep their eyes locked onto the first woman; her angular jaw twitches with something akin to rage. For a second, Calliope lets their expression change, betraying their seemingly vulnerable stance. Their anger wells as deep as their pain. The feeling is mutual. 

“You know as well as I do that we need them, Cassandra”, the softer woman mumbles, taking a step back. 

There is nothing but a grunt in reply, just as unrecognizable as her accent. It bothers Calliope deeply to not be able to place it, makes it harder to know exactly what’s going on. _Always know your enemy_. 

“Do you remember anything? How this all began?” the other woman — not Cassandra— asks. “It would do us good if you did” 

For a moment, Calliope shuts their eyes, attempting to conjure any memory at all. There are flashes, the vague sound of insects trilling, perhaps...a woman? Everything else is smeared and thinned out. They shake their head and sigh wearily, breath fogging in the cool air. 

“There was...a woman? She might have reached out to me but, after that there’s nothing. I’m truly sorry” 

“A woman?” Not-Cassandra glances towards the real Cassandra, “There was no one with you for at least half a mile” 

There is a scoff in the half-light as Cassandra rises from her spot against the wall, “Because everyone who attended the Conclave is dead. Except for them” 

Shock freezes Calliope in place. Dead? There were hundreds of people attending that event — the Conclave, Cassandra called it. How could they be the only survivor? All the faces Calliope saw before entering the Chantry flicker before their eyes. The two qunari who were so kindly; they were able to spot twins from a mile away. It was a comfort to see a pair like them at such an event. They thought of their own twin brother, Elessar, and how much they missed him and wished for his presence beside them. Now they were sick to their stomach imagining how horrible it would have been to lose him in what surely had been a massacre. Ever so softly they manage to whisper. 

“All those people? Dead? That’s...impossible” 

Cassandra, now only feet away, shakes her head, “Sadly for us, it is not. You are the only survivor” 

“I- I would never think of such a thing, I _promise_ you. I’m a scout from a Dalish clan, we don’t have any intention of killing your people, let alone with such a heavy Chantry presence. You _have_ to believe me” 

As Calliope shakes from the tips of their ears down to the heels of their boots, there is nothing but silence. The two women consider each other for a moment, heightening Calliope’s panic to a tipping point. If they are to keep quiet any longer, Calliope fears sickness is in their future. Creators, they really stepped in steaming halla shit this time. 

Thankfully, Cassandra is the first to relent and steps towards Calliope for a second time. There is no aggression, no anger, as the woman bends down to unchain their shackles from the wall. She speaks aloud, but not for the benefit of Calliope.

“I will take them to the rift. Perhaps it would be better to show them”

There’s no protest from the other woman, who simply bows her head in response. Thin, red strands of hair fall out of her hood and Calliope watches as she hastily tucks them back with a smirk. The very move has an air of manipulation about it, as if she wants Calliope to see her do it. Cassandra moves into their vision as the other woman leaves and they wonder what that ploy was. To make her seem more intimidating? Or to say that she knows Calliope is guilty?Shemlen confuse them, especially when they think they’re right. 

Cassandra yanks them to their feet. Her gauntlets only dig into their flesh deep enough for them to be uncomfortable. It only worsens as they step outside into the chill morning air. Shivering, they brace themself against the bright light of day, but it could never prepare them for what sits, churning in the sky.

A putrid green crack disrupts the clouds and rains down dubris from its glowing center. Around them, guards, civilians, and even a few children stop to glance upwards into the shattered heavens. Calliope’s stomach turns into knots as they stare, completely in awe. Not days before, they were a scout on their way to a meeting that could have determined the destinies of thousands. Now, it seems they had done the human Divine’s job for her, rather spectacularly in fact. 

“It’s a rift into the world of demons that grows with each passing hour. It appeared when the Conclave was destroyed. _That_ is what you stepped out of,” Cassandra says, her face creasing with anger as she turns to face Calliope. 

“I...have no words. All I can tell you is that I have _no_ idea how I could have thought of that, let alone done anything to make it real. My clan sent--” 

Above the crowd, there is a flash of sickly light, and a shooting pain takes hold of Calliope’s left hand. It forces them to their knees, stealing the very breath from their lungs. Snow soaks into their boots as they struggle to right themself. Their vision blurs slightly as the pain reaches its peak. It takes everything in Calliope not to heave all over Cassandra as she kneels close and steadies them with a strong arm. Her voice is a thick sludge running into Calliope’s ears, yet somehow they manage to follow it.

“The mark is killing you. I wasn’t sure how I could tell you that without showing you first. There isn’t much time, but you are the key to stopping this” 

Through the haze, Calliope nods, swallowing painfully as they attempt to clear their vision. 

“There’s nothing I want more than to fix this. Whoever -- or whatever-- did this threatens everyone” 

“Then you’ll...” 

Calliope inhales sharply and steels themself to look up at Cassandra, her dark eyes searching them for weakness. Hopefully, she isn’t a templar--Creators, they hope she isn’t. 

“I will do whatever it takes to fix this. You have my _word_” 

That seems to be all Cassandra needs. She offers Calliope a hand, and they gratefully take it, noting the odd symbol etched into her plate. An eye against what looks like a sunburst. Their fears of her being a templar morph, into a fear of some unknown Chantry entity. Who else cares this deeply about the humans’ Divine? Is it possible she was leading them to their death, whether or not they agreed to help? For now, those concerns sit in the pit of Calliopes stomach and curdle. 

Cassandra pushes them to walk in front of her, a firm hand around their forearm. If it’s for Calliope, or to show the civilians that she has this under control, is anyone's guess. Hundreds of hungry, vengeful eyes lock onto them both as they trudge forward through the snow. Calliope remembers the same look in a pack of wolves almost fifteen years prior. They were starved and nearly frozen to death. At the time, Calliope had urged them on, called for them to attack. Now, seeing that animalistic rage, they avert their gaze. Goading the enemy in this situation will get them torn to shreds; Cassandra wouldn’t be able to stop the horde. 

“They demand my death with their eyes. You can’t mistake that for anything else,” they say, just loud enough to elicit a scoff from a nearby woman. Calliope simply keeps moving.

“Divine Justinia was the head of the Chantry. The Conclave was meant to broker peace between mages and templars. To them, you’ve taken away their hope for a better future, regardless of which side they were on” Cassandra replies, a heaviness in her voice. 

“I’m aware. Your people aren’t the only ones who walk Thedas, you know. The Dalish would have been just as affected by her decision” 

Cassandra sighs as she walks Calliope through the first set of gates, reaching for something on her belt. At first, Calliope panics internally, seeing the woman go for a dagger hanging at her hip. The next moments flash before their eyes and they are sure pain will follow, but it does not. Instead, she selects a large key ring and unlocks the cuffs around their wrists. They fall away with a clatter and Cassandra turns away, walking towards the short path to a stone bridge. 

Annoyance fills Calliope’s chest as they continue after her. Not even a word from her at their comment? Are all shemlen this short with people, or just her? 

“Did you not hear me? Or are you choosing to ignore what I said?” 

“I didn’t see the point in giving you a response. You know why you’re here” 

Now the annoyance rewrites itself with rage, neither of them notice the Breach light up once more. 

“Is it not enough that I have no memory of what happened in that Chantry? You really think I would _willingly_ give myself something that’s slowly killing me?” 

Cassandra turns on her heel with a withering glare. In the background a guard shouts, both fail to notice even that.

“Not intentionally. An assassin can make mistakes, in fact they often do” 

“How dare you! I had _no_ intention of killing your priestess, or whatever she is! What can I do to show you that?!”

There’s a beat of silence before the demon makes contact with the bridge. Time seems to slow down as Calliope finally takes note of the flaming ball of debris hurtling at them. Beneath their feet, the stones shatter and crumble, rendering the two airborne. Once again, Calliope thinks to themself that the Creators must really be angry with them. 

And perhaps they are, considering how hard they slam into the frozen ground below. 


	2. Into the Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Calliope makes their way towards the Breach, the Mark weighing them down heavily. Along the way they meet an odd elven mage with knowledge of the Fade and a dwarf hellbent on annoying Cassandra. Will they reach the end or be consumed by the dark tide?

_II._

White spots dance before Calliope’s eyes as they suck in a wheezing breath. All their aches and pains shift to newly forming bruises and gashes. This is so much worse than falling out of an aravel. They carefully turn over, cognizant of their swimming vision and pounding head. Probably a concussion; not too terrible, but bad enough to make the world spin violently. Streaks of pale green cross the sky and land with a tremendous screech just yards away. 

_Get up, you have to get up_. Calliope repeats the phrase over and over in their mind, trembling with the effort of moving. A grunt to their left reminds them they are not alone. Cassandra rises to her knees with the aid of her sword. Blood smears across one side of her face, slowly dripping to the ice below. Just beyond them, a thick, dark blob slithers across the frozen river. With it comes the horrible groan of a demon -- a shade-- deep and guttural. Panic briefly throws Calliope backward on the ice. They only know the stories, the tales Keeper whispers around the bonfire on cold nights. Demons are _always_ bad news. 

The shade notices its prey mere feet away, cocking its malformed head as if sizing them up. Cassandra pushes herself to a standing position, her sword glistening in the cool morning sun, yet the demon makes no move. There’s something wrong. Calliope watches it bob back and forth intelligently. Would a shade be that smart? From what they recall demons usually have no qualms against attacking the moment they find their quarry. A realization hits them: _it’s waiting for others to join it._

“Cassandra, we have to go now!”,they croak out, scrambling to their feet.

Thankfully, the woman does not take her eyes off of the creature. There’s a telltale lilt of anxiety in her voice, “Why?” 

Calliope has no time to reply as a sickening crack echoes behind them. They spin about wildly and watch as a rage demon oozes upwards into a semi-solid form. Parts of it still drip from the bridge above. Familiar pressure wells inside Calliope’s chest, fingers tingling with nervous energy at the sight. If Cassandra is trying to get their attention, they cannot hear her. Instead, they take a shaky step back, the shade forgotten. Thick lines begin to form outwards from the rage demon; a deep tremble rolling through the ground. The heat and weight is shattering the ice. 

Strings upon strings of curses flow from Calliope as they attempt to make a speedy retreat. Whether it be from cowardice or self preservation, they only have one goal in mind: get onto solid land. Another blast rockets stone from the bridge towards them, a chunk hitting them square in the left shoulder with a burst of agony. They topple forward and skid a few feet, screaming in pain. Telltale warmth soaks through the back of their cloak and tunic, smearing the darkness of the river with red. The softest clatter brings them from the edge, they crane their neck just in time to see a blade land near them. It’s worn and rusty, but even a blunt sword can hack a demon to pieces with enough force.

Without much thought, Calliope reaches for the hilt and ignores the pain clamoring to be heard. Whipping around they lock their gaze onto the shade, its form sharp now. Unknown strength lifts Calliope and hurtles them for the monster, the familiar pressure building within them. The blade pierces through hide, excessive force plunging steel straight into the ice. It may not be their mother’s sword, but it still feels like an extension of themself, as it should. Fury burns its way to the tips of their fingers, giving the shade no time to react as they reach down with their right hand and grasp its grotesque face. Flames explode on contact, the pressure lessening in time with Calliope’s fast beating heart. 

Whatever is left of the shade crumbles through their fist and into the snow at their feet. Slowly, they raise their eyes to meet Cassandras as she pulls her own blade from the dead rage demon. Fear flickers across the woman’s harsh features, knitting her dark brows together hard. 

“I told you we should have run. There’s probably more on the way,”Calliope mumbles, exhaustion finally settling in. 

There is no response, at least not in words. Instead, Cassandra levels her sword at Calliope and takes a breath. 

“Drop your weapon. _Now”_

“_Fenedhis_, you are insufferable! Yes, of course, I’ll drop my weapon. It has become _painfully_ obvious that you want me to die here. If you need to be reminded, we were just attacked by demons. They blew up your bridge and killed your men”

The anger from earlier rises within Calliope once more, acidic. Even with the fatigue, they are terrifying. As they need to be. Cautiously, the blade lowers, but Calliope does not loosen their hold on the hilt of their sword. What is the point of relenting if Cassandra is just going to stab them in the back? 

“I…suppose you should not be without protection. You did come willingly” 

With a sigh, Calliope awkwardly sheathes their blade. It fits, just barely. No doubt there will be tears in the leather. 

“You have my word that I won’t turn on you, if that’s any consolation” 

“It is a comfort, more than you know. I had no idea you were an apostate” 

Confusion ripples through Calliope; an apostate? Are the humans of the area completely oblivious to the fact the Dalish have mages? Their anxiety only increases towards Cassandra; perhaps she really is a templar. She holds herself differently, at least from the Orlesian ones. They cannot mask the strain in their voice as they grip the hilt on their sword once more.

“Will you throw me into a Circle now that you know?” 

“Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. The Circles have all fallen, for now. You are in no present danger, if you’re worried”, Cassandra replies, beginning to trudge through a heavy snow bank. Calliope follows close behind, still nervous. Even with demons falling from the sky and their hand threatening to fall off, they worry most about being sent to the Circle. 

“Is that a definite no, then?” 

“You are Dalish, are you not? We cannot impose on your rules unless you’re deemed too dangerous” 

Now the nervousness turns into annoyance. They stop mid snow drift, frowning. 

“So don’t get into trouble is what you’re saying? I’m already suspected for murder, let alone whatever crime magic use is” 

A derisive snort clouds the air around them briefly and Cassandra turns to glance at Calliope. 

“I suggest you worry about the present and not the future. The Conclave was destroyed, I doubt there will be talks about rebuilding Circles for a long time. For now, you’re in our custody, and it will stay that way until such a time that we can clear you” 

There is wisdom in Cassandra’s words, despite Calliope’s innate need to run the other direction. Besides, they made a promise. 

Silence permeates while they hike through the destruction along the frozen river. Houses burn quietly, bodies litter the ground; it all makes Calliope sick to their stomach. What causes this much death in its wake? Slavers, templars, human greed; these leave behind mass chaos, but not this. Thankfully, the demons seem to weave around Cassandra and Calliope. With the wound in their shoulder and the pain radiating from their left hand, they’re not entirely sure they can fight much more. 

Each trail is worse than the last, draining what’s left of their energy. Calliope’s muscles strain to keep them upright, let alone walking. Strands of their hair stick to their face, which has completely fallen out of their braid. What they would give for a warm bed and a few of their mother’s hearth cakes. But they’re so far away from the clan, their mother no longer makes hearth cakes, and they will most likely die in a snowbank in the middle of nowhere. That thought makes them laugh bitterly. The sound catches Cassandra’s attention. She barely looks over her shoulder at them, yet they believe they see her brow furrow in worry. 

“There is a healer not far from where we are. He can tend to your wounds,” Cassandra says, just audible over the wind. 

The weather and pain are getting to them, it’s obvious. Every little obstacle catches their boots and adds on to the exhaustion. For the umpteenth time, a small root in their path makes them stumble and finally they crumple to their knees. Another delirious laugh escapes Calliope as they kneel in the snow, numb underneath their threadbare cloak. Keeper really should have given them a thicker one. Perhaps she really meant to send them to their death. 

While they stare at the blankness around, them a heaviness descends, but it isn’t unconsciousness. There isn’t darkness at the edges of their vision, nor is there weightlessness. Slowly, they glance upwards towards Cassandra’s softening features. Her dark brown eyes carry pity as she lays her own cloak over Calliope’s shoulders, careful not to squeeze the left too hard. 

“There’s one more hill. I’ll help you walk. I believe I heard the healer shout from over that way” 

For once Calliope’s chest fills with gratitude towards this woman. Even Cassandra must be freezing in these conditions, and yet she is willing to give her own protection for them. There’s hope yet, it seems. Strong hands lift them to their feet and pull them halfway across Cassandra’s shoulders. The wind blows through their cloaks, but somehow, they’re able to withstand it. It takes everything for them to focus on dragging their feet through the snow and up the steep hill. All the while, an ache pulsates through their marked hand. Strange, seeing as the rift above them does not widen or flash. 

Beside them, Cassandra speaks, but they cannot parse it. Putrid green light cascades out at the crest of the hill, flashing in time with the pain in their palm. Just beyond, in the center of the halo are figures clashing with monsters Calliope has never seen before. One spindly creature with a gaping maw shrieks and rushes at a soldier, pinning them against a section of wall. They look away as a sickening crunch fills the air. Eyes wide they turn to Cassandra who grimaces and carefully moves them both forward. There’s a word --or perhaps a name-- that she shouts and one of the figures halt. A shorter blob, too far away for Calliopeto make out, waves the figure away, as if to tell them to go. They not only make their way towards them, but do so at a breakneck speed. 

Close enough now, they can tell the figure is a man with darker skin and ears that come to a point. An elf. His fingers send sparks along Calliopes wrist as he wrenches them away from Cassandra without a word. Panic fills their lungs and threatens to choke them completely. They dig their heels into the stone; a feeble attempt, seeing as the man is much stronger than them, at least for the moment Their other hand grips the coarse fabric of his outer robes with a crushing force, a weak pressure building in their chest. 

“Let...me go! You’re hurting me!” Calliope shouts, struggling to wriggle out of his grip. 

There is only silence as the man continues to drag them away from Cassandra and to the source of the light. A spindly demon reaches out to slash at the man, only to rocket backwards with a glare in its direction. The creatures companions shriek in frustration but come no closer, the other soldiers register as less of a threat. Still, the anxiety and pressure in Calliope’s chest builds. They no longer fight against the man, opting to side-eye him blearily instead. He’s handsome enough, yet something brews beneath the surface. As they approach the source of the light --undoubtedly the demons too-- the man glances down at Calliope. His eyes are a harsh and cold violet; a terrifying void. Yet they seem to soften when sees their fear. 

“This will hurt, but we must be quick. Do you trust me?” 

They give him a withering look, unable to properly form a response. What do they have to lose at this point? Even if he plans to cut off their arm or throw them to the demons, he’ll be doing them a favor. Finally, they nod. There is no warning as a mere second later the man thrusts their hand towards the strobing light. White hot, burning pain sears through their body and they let out a gut wrenching sob. Seconds turn to an eternity of agony, quashing the pressure in their chest completely. They can physically feel the Fade mending itself while tearing them asunder. From the edges of their mind a small voice whispers. 

_ **Do not give in, da’len. You will not fall this day.** _

A comforting warmth spreads across the knuckles of Calliope’s left hand, as if someone were gently holding it. Almost immediately the pain vanishes. Their breathing slows to a peaceful crawl as they slowly unfurl, blinking tears away. The rift is gone, leaving them in the middle of another bridge. Bodies of demons and soldiers alike litter the stones. Now there is no sound but the wind brushing through the trees and the boots coming towards them. They turn to glance at Cassandra, easily masking their confusion with indifference. Best not to let her know about the voice. She gives Calliope a small nod before gesturing to the tall elven man. 

“This is our healer. Like you he is an apostate. I’m sure he would be glad to look you over” 

The man scoffs and shakes his head, “I am no healer. However, I can try. Sit down, we’ll be here for a moment” 

Calliope nearly collapses to the ground, grateful for rest. Another man, stocky and scruffy, saunters close. He swings a curious looking weapon behind him, seemingly strapping it to a holster on his back. With an easy smile he settles onto a ruined column, waving to Cassandra. He’s so short, he must be a dwarf. His legs don’t quite reach the ground. 

“Are you with the Chantry too?” they ask weakly, ignoring the stab of cold as the cloaks fall from their shoulders. 

There’s another scoff from the elf. “I hope that’s not a serious question” 

“I’m actually here to annoy the Seeker. She does so love my company, as it seems to be needed”

His voice is deep and soothing, fatherly almost. Calliope laughs despite themself, prompting a larger smile from the dwarf. 

“It is _appreciated_, Varric, not _wanted,_” Cassandra huffs. 

“Oh please, Seeker, you _need_ my help” 

Their argument fades into the background as the other man pushes Calliope’s shoulder back into place with a loud pop. For a moment, the whole world is dark. They reach out and grasp onto the healer’s forearm, trembling. 

“My apologies, I should have warned you,” he says. 

“Did you break them, Chuckles? That looks bad.” 

The dwarf, Varric, flashes a worried look in their direction. Again, much too gentle and fatherly for someone he has just met, but not unwelcome. 

“Chuckles? Don’t tell me someone _actually_ named you that,” Calliope mumbles. They suck in a breath as the man in question wraps the cloaks back around them. There’s a hint of a smirk on his lips as he tucks one of his dreadlocks back behind his ear.

“No. My name is Solas, if you would like an introduction” 

The name is familiar; the word for pride in elven. They cast a look up at him, trying to find the telltale swoop of vallaslin or some mark of the Dalish. There are none, absolutely none. Once again, they bury the confusion with a simple nod of indifference. 

“You seem to know a lot about whatever is on my hand, Solas” 

The smirk fades as he steps back with a nod of his own, “I do. I study the intricacies of the Fade” 

“We believe taking them to the Breach will solve this issue. Do you believe that a wise decision?” Cassandra butts in. She’s standing several feet farther from Varric now, at a stalemate it seems, with the dwarf. 

“I do not see why we should not. They might be able to close it.” 

He speaks with no ounce of hesitation, as if he’s comfortable despite the bitter cold or the woman staring him down. Calliope begins to wonder if he knows more about the voice if he knows about the mark. He seems awfully sure of himself, cocky even. At the very least he isn’t Cassandra, who will throw them into a Circle at a moments notice if she learns about the voice. 

A nudge from Varric wakes Calliope from their thoughts, startling them. 

“C’mon, I’ll help you down the mountain if you’d like. The other two thought they got your attention already,” he says with a smile, offering his hand to them. Cautiously, they take it and let him haul them to their feet.

“They’ll have to speak louder if they want to do that. I might be concussed”

“We’ll get an actual healer to look at you later, I promise” 

“Is that a promise you can keep, Master Dwarf?” they murmur, holding tightly to Varric as he leads them away from the bridge. 

“I’ll sure as hell try kid” 


	3. Guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Herald of Andraste is beginning to wear down to the bone, realizing that their life may end very soon if something does not change. The Breach lingers above their head, but not for long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all it has been...a time. Calliope's relationships are changing slightly due to some stuff that I just wanted to address. You may have noticed that the Lavellan/OC tag is gone. Callie is going to end up with Dorian instead of this other character, which prompts me to say this: 
> 
> Calliope is a Nonbinary Man, they/them pronouns, he/him can be used sparingly but really only by partners and close friends. Names do not carry gender as well, so I will be hearing nothing about their name being traditionally feminine. If you think that you're gonna have a time and a half with my Hawke as well, so I suggest you educate yourself or don't read this. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone keeping up with this, I really appreciate it! Be on the lookout for an ME:A fic from me as well!

III. 

Pain catches up to Calliope as the group closes in on another gate. It forces them to lean against a nearby tree and suck in a trembling breath. Whoever--or whatever--bestowed the sickly green gash upon their hand is going to pay dearly. Through the softly falling snow they find Solas staring. His violet eyes are colder than the air itself. Something within Calliope wants to draw closer and at the same time run the other direction. They glance towards Cassandra and Varric, who seem to be bickering again, although they cannot tell what about. All that matters is that they’re close. Slowly, Calliope straightens and balls their left hand into a fist. And they make a mistake. Ignoring the ache, they shuffle through the snow to stand next to Solas.

“How did a mage get caught up in this? You don’t seem the Circle type,” they murmur with a smile. 

Solas offers his own smirk in return and shrugs. “I am no Circle mage, but neither are you.” 

Suddenly the stones beneath their feet are much too cold. A mage? How could he possibly know that they’re a mage? They hope to the Creators they can keep their expression from cracking. 

“No, I’m not. Might as well be, considering how Cassandra reacted. I thank the gods every moment that the Circles fell, otherwise I’d be in one right now.” 

There’s a chuckle as Solas nods towards the woman. She’s pointing a finger into Varric’s face while he guffaws. 

“She is quite abrasive. At least you did not have to listen to those two fight for hours on end.” 

For a moment, Calliope forgets the mark on their hand and genuinely smiles. If circumstances were different, perhaps this would have been fun. Despite her initial meeting with Calliope, Cassandra is kind and carries an ounce of comfort they miss. Reminds them of simpler times. They look back to Solas, who meets their gaze easily. His expression is soft, gentle almost. How dare he be so handsome? As if they were in need of another distraction. 

“If...you aren’t a Circle mage, then what are you?” they blurt out, swallowing the heat rising in their cheeks. Gods, they still cannot look away from him. 

Solas sighs and glances to the gates, “A wanderer, nothing more. I came to the Conclave because the decision would affect us all, not just the Circle mages.”

There’s a disinterest -- a frustration almost-- in his voice that makes Calliope shrink back. Did they say something wrong? They stare as Solas’ jaw sets hard and he calls out to the other two. Perhaps it was a sore subject. Cassandra walks up with Varric in tow, and Solas turns away completely to follow behind. In that single interaction, Calliope remembers that they are a prisoner, regardless of innocence. Neither Varric or Solas have any reason to show them kindness. Yet their heart sinks at the thought. They fall in line, heaviness growing in their limbs. Better to stay quiet for now and await the verdict. 

As they pass through the gates they catch a grating sound from one of the guards. _Abomination._ Calliope dares not turn around, panic seizing their entire body. Hate radiates from behind them and pierces through their spine. They cannot help but grip the hilt of their blade and grit their teeth. At first they simply keep walking, keeping their eyes on the back of Solas’ cloak. They feel a sting at the back of their head. The panic curdles into rage as they reach back and their fingers come away slick with blood. Without a thought towards their captors, Calliope whips around and faces the guards. Both humans, not surprising. One of them wears a telltale snear, scars criss crossing his ghoulish features. The other, shorter than her companion and genuinely afraid, backs up to the railing of the bridge. Smart one. Cassandra needs to keep her. 

“Are you a coward, _shemlen_?” Calliope growls, letting their anger wash over them. 

“I could ask the same of you. If you’re going to leave yourself as the only survivor, you should make sure you don’t get caught.” He has a thick, drawling accent. Fereldan native probably. 

They take a step closer, drawing their sword just enough to let it glint in the light. The guard’s eyes widen slightly, but he does not falter. His partner trembles in her armor, clattering against the freezing cobblestones. Strangely, Calliope is calm. The anger stills their hands and their mind. This man is a full foot taller than them, but they can easily cut him down to their height. He’s in sore need of it. Before they lunge forward, a hand covers theirs. Calliope glances down and finds Varric staying their blade. A crack begins to form in their serenity.

“Careful, my friend, you’re dangerously close to losing your tongue. I don’t think they take kindly to that talk,” Varric says, a hint of laughter in his voice. He’s trying to ease the guard’s ire, not Calliope’s. 

“They shouldn’t have killed the Divine, then” 

Smart as he is, Varric doesn’t notice Calliope shatter. As he musters another charming comeback, they scream above the din in their head. 

“If you want someone to be guilty, you have them! I didn’t kill your precious Divine, nor did I kill your people. But I sure fucking feel responsible for their deaths! That’s what you want isn’t it? A person to blame it all on?!” 

Their voice crumbles as they release a cascade of tears that burns down their cheeks. Another pair of hands brace Calliope as they threaten to fall with each heaving sob. It’s too much, it was always too much. Could they not see the guilt was eating away at them? Will it not be enough to watch them collapse? 

A warm darkness shuts Calliope away as someone draws them close. Soft furs and worn leather press against their face, catching their tears. Everything slows to a heartbeat. The cacophony in Calliope’s head quiets to make room for a single, commanding voice.

“Breathe, lethallin, breathe” 

Their eyes snap open at the sound, trembling at the realization. Solas lets them shift against him as their panic subsides. Calliope does not let go of him despite the shock, instead they lean against his shoulder and attempt to breathe deeply. Odd, calling them lethallin when he barely knows them. Still, they’re glad for the comfort even if the embarrassment is starting to creep in. Perhaps if they continue to shut their eyes they could stay in this moment. No breach, no mark, no threats against their life. But of course something just had to shatter that. A nasally, grating voice calls out from a short distance behind them. 

“Unless you’re going to slap them in chains, I suggest you step away from the prisoner!” 

Calliope looks over their shoulder warily, thankful that Solas keeps an arm around them despite the order. It seems that the voice belongs to a man in the customary white and red chantry robes, standing among the tents on the bridge. His face is wrinkled with age and quite possibly years of never breaking into a smile. Next to him is the tall and strangely empathetic looking Leliana. Cassandra steps out from beside Calliope and frowns deeply. 

“We have this situation under control, Chancellor. There is no need to _slap them in irons_”

Shockingly, the Chancellors face becomes even more wrinkly as he sneers at Cassandra, “I _order_ you to take them to Val Royeaux to be executed immediately, Seeker. Or have you forgotten the incident that killed the Divine?” 

Blood rushes through Calliopes ears while they watch the two bicker, a terrible metallic taste gathering in the back of their throat. They want to shrink down into the stones and disappear forever. Anything to escape this. Solas tightens his grip around Calliope’s shoulders at the tension, but his expression does not change. There’s a moment of relief --but only a moment-- before Cassandra walks the rest of the way up to the Chancellor shaking her finger in his face. Calliope cannot shut the Seekers voice out but they can shut the image out, bowing their head into Solas’ shoulder. The furs are soft against their cheek and he smells like the pine forest that surrounds their clan in the Marches. 

Creators, they miss those days. 

Their eyes snap open again when they hear Cassandra’s voice grow near, her footsteps clattering against the stones of the bridge. Calliope wishes that all these _shemlen_ would learn to lighten their footfalls, simply for the sake of their headache. They do not complain however, they only watch Cassandra draw near and repeat her question. 

“What would you have us do?” 

Confusion crosses their sharp features and they feel Solas’ grip tighten once more around them, oddly protective. It makes them pull away for the moment, looking from him to Cassandra with panic choking their lungs. 

“I..am sorry. What do you mean?” they ask quietly, fixing their gaze on the Seeker.. 

“You came willingly and our information tells us you bear the marks of a Protector in your Clan. If your fate hangs in the balance I think you should be the one to decide it”. 

An ache pulsates in time with Calliope’s heart as they listen. The Breach slowly widens while they stand here, the center of these humans' argument. Valuable time is wasting away. They take another step forward and glance towards the sick colored sky then back to the cobblestones beneath their feet, steeling themself. 

“One way or another my head goes to your axe. I do not trust in your justice. My fate is not mine to decide,” they take a shaky breath, raising their eyes to the Seeker, “If I am to die, let it be quick and let it be in closing the scar in the sky. Whatever is swiftest would be my decision.” 

“The path through the Valley then,” Cassandra confirms, looking soft almost. As if she can sense the weakness in Calliope’s chest. They simply shrug, suddenly aware of how heavy their sword is and how tired they are. All of their energy is siphoning into the green canyon splitting their palm. 

How long until they are a husk, they wonder. 

Solas places a hand on Calliope’s shoulder as Cassandra walks back to Leliana and that Chantry human, making them jump. All of their thoughts instantly reroute to the various ways they could throw this man over the bridge. But they don’t, too much effort. So they force themself to relax beneath his touch and glance upwards at him, meeting his eyes. “You will not die here,” he says quietly, lilac irises sharp. Odd color, one Calliope hasn’t seen before. 

“Do not make promises you cannot keep, _falon_,” they mumble, shrugging his hand off their shoulder, “Neither you, the Seeker, nor Varric can save me from this.”

At his name, the dwarf looks up, pain written all over his features but he says nothing. Solas wears that same expression, but it creases his face more. Holds a deeper and older hurt. A question crosses Calliope’s mind but they do not ask it. Instead they bury it low and pretend to not care, pretend to squash the dread building in their stomach. Not that there would be anything to relieve them of that. All of the squabbling has sapped their will to ask for comfort, along with that blasted Mark. They turn away from the two men and watch Cassandra march back to them, gesturing to the now opening gate on the other side of the bridge. Calliope’s legs move even as their will continues to crumble and they wonder now if Falon’Din will carry them to the Beyond, or if they will be cast into the great Void. 

As they walk under the stone archway of the gate, they think it will at least be quiet in the Void. 


	4. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Calliope experiences a nightmare of eldritch proportions, waking up unable to remember what happened between them trudging up the side of a mountain and now. Is the Voice an enemy or an ally? What has become of their companions? And what happened to the Rift that threatened the whole of Thedas, if not the world?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any disjointedness in this chapter, while working on it I was hit with a severe case of vertigo and of course I had to edit it while still suffering through it. RIP. But I hope you guys still enjoy it! I'm thinking about updating this fic once a month rather than once a week, just so I don't put as much pressure on myself. And as always be on the lookout for my ME:A fic as well! Health willing I'll be able to get the first chapter up this month possibly. Happy reading <3.

IV. 

It is a slow and painful awakening for Calliope, every inch of their skin feels rubbed to the point of being raw, every muscle and tendon twitches with an ache. Whatever is below them feels gritty; granules stick to their flesh much like the sand on the banks of the Waking Sea, but it’s an odd color. Black. They swallow hard, closing their fist around a handful of it while they lay there. Almost too afraid to move aside from that. Where is the snow? The rocky valley where they--. Their breath catches in their throat when they realize they cannot remember what happened. How they got there. 

_You should not be here, da’len. _

A familiar voice reaches out to them, raspy and tired. Why they find comfort in it, they cannot say but it does not inspire them to get up. Not in the slightest. 

“Where am I?” they ask so softly, whispers into the charred sand beneath them. 

_The Fade, again._

“I’m scared.” 

A sound off to the side makes Calliope freeze, even their breathing slows to a halt. Someone is walking on shards of broken glass, but how can that be? Is the Fade really that nonsensical? So many questions and they are so _afraid. _

They feel their lungs will burst the moment they see blackened footwraps and almost translucent feet appear before them. A spirit perhaps. If they possessed the courage they would ask the Voice what is there with them but their voice has been stolen. There is the sound of crunching again as the figure bows down, sinking into the dark beach below. Calliope anticipates a blow, something wrapping it’s jaws around their form and swallowing them whole. Only for there to be a gentle touch at their temple, then fingers working knots from their hair as the figure settles beside them cross legged. 

_Why are you scared? _

The Voice returns softly, louder and much more clear this time. Calliope sucks in a breath and releases some of the tension in their body, but still does not rise. 

“I can’t remember what happened. The Seeker, the...dwarf, the elven mage…” they trail off, trying so desperately to conjure their faces, “I can’t remember their names.”

_You were severely injured by a demon, your mind was shattered briefly. It will come back, but you must not stay here. _

Calliope sighs as those fingers work out a particularly bad knot, freeing them of some pain at the base of their skull.

“How do you know that?”

_That answer is one you are not ready for, da’len. You are a brave and proud warrior, I do not wish to break that. _

“Is that what I was?” they scoff, closing their eyes, “I do not feel it now. Will it come back?”

_It always comes back. You just need to wake up. _

The agony at their neck is what gets them moving. Whoever belongs to the Voice is pulling at a section near the center of their head and it is pure suffering. Every nerve is alight with hot, earth shattering pain. They go to wrench the fingers away only to find they have turned into talons, piercing through flesh and bone. But there is no blood. Surely if this was real they would be dead; at the very least they would have felt them before this. Beneath them the black sand shifts as the ground splits apart into a wide abyss. The Void, filled with a thousand screaming horrors; eyes rolling open and fixing their piercing gaze onto Calliope. They want to shout but all sound is choked from their throat as the Voice pulls back even farther on their hair, willing this one single knot to come loose.

Suddenly Calliope cannot breathe. They claw at their throat in a feeble attempt to get in air. It does not occur to them that they should be questioning why they are not falling, nor is the owner of the Voice. Instead they are suspended above the horrors. This is beyond their comprehension. The Fade could never be this terrifying, but then again the Keeper never prepared them for much of anything. Let alone this. Black spots dance at the edges of their vision. They’re no longer fighting against the thing -- whatever the Voice is-- that is choking them. Ironic to die in your own mind. Perhaps that was the Creators wish all along, to let them be consumed by their own madness. Their thoughts stray to a face they can barely make out. A face like theirs in almost every way, save for the scar marring the bridge of his nose; the smattering of freckles underneath it. His smile is so comforting, why is that? Bone white, pointed canines flashing in the sunlight. 

_He is waiting for you. _

The Voice cuts through their vision, speaking above the din below them both. 

Somehow they know it is right. Someone is waiting. More than one in fact. 

A surge of energy flows through them as they shatter apart in the spirit’s grip, the whole world changing before them. No longer are they above an open pit. They are in an unfamiliar room --a dingy shack-- sweating profusely despite the chill to the air, and their palm is _aching_. Calliope cradles their hand against their chest, already having sat up sometime during their nightmare. That has to be what it was. A nightmare and nothing more. Only it feels as if it wasn’t, There’s a searing pain at the base of their neck, creeping into their shoulders and down their spine. 

With great care they reach around and press their uninjured hand to the back of their neck; the act alone causes an immense, shooting pain. They rub their fingers against the rough texture of gauze and recoil a bit, skin wet with fresh blood. Perhaps they need a healer. A face pops into their mind; dark skin, freckles, lilac colored eyes. 

_Solas_. 

The elation at remembering his name fills Calliope’s chest with warmth. Everything starts to come back in a trickle; the dwarf, the lady Seeker. Varric and Cassandra. They wonder if they’re alright. Whatever happened after the conversation on the bridge clearly put Calliope out of commission. _That_ is one thing they cannot remember. Though they’re sure the creature or blade that made their wounds was formidable. It doesn’t take a memory to draw that conclusion. Their mind strays to the nightmare though. The Voice telling them that there was a demon attack, maybe there’s a chance that really happened. 

“Ah, you’re awake,” someone croaks close to them, causing Calliope to startle. 

They whip around, instantly regretting it of course, to see a pale elf sitting in a rickety chair across the room. So quiet they barely noticed him. His hair is short and shaggy, a sandy blond. A swathe of freckles across his cheeks; dotting his pointed ears. Big blue eyes look at them with nervous interest through thick lensed glasses perched on his slightly curved nose. No vallaslin, but he gives off the familiar energy of Keeper. Someone who’s veins run thick with magic. When he stands, he’s taller than them by quite a bit, his colorful robes dragging on the stone floor. 

“Who are you?” they ask quietly as he comes close to their bed. He seems gentle and kind enough, but they are wary to trust many of the people here. Cassandra did threaten to kill them the first time she met them. 

“My name is Artemaeus,” he responds, standing by a table at the side of their bed, “I am one of the healers set to look after you.” 

His accent is thick, one that Calliope cannot place. It isn’t terrible, or too hard to understand, but they’ve certainly never heard it before. Their curiosity piques as the elven man begins taking out clean bandages from a box on the table, and gestures for them to turn so he can see to their wound. They do as they are told for now, ignoring the pain as he begins to change out their dressings.

“Do you know what happened to the others?” 

“Seeker Pentaghast is alive and well. Solas was here not two hours ago, he watched over you for the majority of the night. Ser Tethras is fine, recovering from a nasty wound to the shoulder but otherwise fit as a fiddle. I did not see any others you encountered, but no one else was put on my rounds so I assume all is fine.”

Calliope breathes a short lived sigh of relief as Artemaeus touches a particularly painful spot and they inhale sharply. 

“What did this to me?”

“Pride demon,” he says, a bit too matter of factly, “It swiped at you from behind. The Seeker was worried it had decapitated you.”

They freeze at the thought, cursing themself for being able to imagine that so well. In such detail even. At least the ache lessens as Artemaeus hovers a hand close to their wound. A soothing blue green light washes over the room, bathing everything in its coolness. 

“You’re a mage,” Calliope says aloud, then feels heat in their cheeks at stating the obvious. Truly they are always shocked when they come across other mages, even Solas. A part of the world they wish so badly to be part of, to belong in, but never will. 

“I am, yes,” Artemaeus chuckles, finishing up with their bandages, “From the Circle in Hossberg.” 

“Where is that?” 

“The Anderfels, just beyond Orlais. A big desert, awful weather, but it’s my home.” 

He moves away from them and props up the pillows, allowing Calliope to get more comfortable. While he does so they look him over, noting the way his robes are torn in places and how formal he is in his movements. Stiff and avoiding any contact with their actual skin beyond what he’s done for their wound. They can’t help but think he’s been mistreated some way, remembering the horror stories their parents would tell them. Circles are the places non Dalish mages go to rot; a place that Calliope was nearly sent so many years ago. 

“How did you manage to escape?” they ask quietly, leaning back as they continue to watch him. 

His face contorts with confusion and then a sorrowful understanding, “I did not ‘escape’. I was traveling with some Templars, that’s all. Now I am here.”

“Traveling with Templars? Why would you-.” 

Artemaeus interrupts them with a simple wave of the hand, going back to settle in his chair, “Don’t worry about it. A story for another time, when you’ve recovered more.” 

To further interrupt them the door just beyond the two of them opens, a rush of cold air sneaking in before it slams shut. Cassandra stands there in the doorway, dusting snow from her pauldrons as she curses the horrible weather outside. The rush of relief replaces the annoyance at being slapped in the face with freezing wind, they are simply too glad to see she’s doing just as fine as she was before. 

“You are finally up, good,” she says shortly, kicking off snow from her boots onto the stone floor, “Once you are up and moving you need to come to the Chantry. We must speak about your situation.” 

Ah, right back to business. 

Calliope leans back against their pillows, the relief from earlier draining from them steadily. Not so much as a _‘how are you doing?’_ or _‘prisoner! I am so glad to see you awake!’. _Typical. Bitterness takes root as they cross their arms over their chest, ignoring the pain flaring up their left arm and into the blasted wound.

“Of course, Seeker. The Pride Demon didn’t take me out of the picture so I suppose your people are angry.” 

Cassandra’s expression flickers to life with guilt, or perhaps sympathy. But it does nothing to soften Calliope’s feelings towards this whole situation. What it comes down to is that these people believe they killed their Divine, which they know for a fact they would never do. Keeper sent them here to watch and report back, not make a total fool of themself. A protector of the Clan, not someone who draws unneeded attention towards it. 

“You sealed the Rift shut, Lavellan.”

That does get their attention. Calliope looks up towards the woman and frowns deeply. There would be no reason to lie to them about this - all they would need to do is step outside to see if that was the truth. Artemaeus didn’t seem all that worried either when they woke up. Perhaps that should have been their first question. At least they’re getting answers now. 

“How?” 

“We lead you to the center of it, there was a fight with a Pride Demon-,” Cassandra gestures to them, “Clearly it left you wounded, but before you fell unconscious you simply raised your hand and closed it with a gesture. Nothing more nothing less. Since then Artemaeus and Solas have been looking after you.” 

“And this changes my situation, how?” they ask, hazarding a look down at their arm which pulses with a dull green light. Their Divine is still dead, Haven in shambles, so many people lost their lives. Will they lose theirs as well? 

“I do not believe someone would create such chaos and then so readily help us repair it. Someone killed Justinia but it was not you.” 

The tone Cassandra uses is soft; easier on their heart and their mind. This woman -so devoted and previously so intent on blaming them, holding them accountable- no longer views them as the enemy. Finally. Relief floods Calliope as they lay there, glancing between the Seeker and their pulsating arm. At least now there is an increased chance of their survival, so they can go home to their family again. Their friends. 

“So, I will not be executed?” 

The quiet surrounding that question is deafening. They slowly make eye contact with Cassandra as she nods, and they could honestly start sobbing in that moment. All that blame sloughs off their shoulders so easily. 

“I would like you to stay. I suggest it even as we do not know exactly what will happen to your hand and the killer may be after you, now that word has gotten out about what transpired here,” Cassandra says, coming closer to the bed. She makes an effort to smile, something that she doesn’t do often obviously. The corners of her mouth lift oddly in a way that makes Calliope want to laugh. But perhaps that would be rude to their protector. Even if she is actively delaying their return to the Clan. 

“That’s a sound request, I suppose,” they say with a heavy sigh, shifting their weight to cradle their arm better, “May I send word to my Clan at the very least? So that they know I survived.” 

“Of course, I can provide you the materials,” Cassandra nods, then glances at Artemaeus who has kept quiet during all of this. “Ma’am-?” he begins, meeting her gaze. 

“Take a break, I will watch over them for the time being. You and Solas deserve a reprieve. Go,” she waves him out, and the elf takes one look back at Calliope before quickly moving out of the little shack. 

“You want to spend more time with little old me?” Calliope chuckles, huddling under the blankets more at the blast of cold air. They sorely hope there will be no more interruptions, just for the sake of keeping the heat in. 

A short laugh escapes Cassandra as she pulls the chair over from the corner Artemaeus had been sitting in and hunkers down. She is a severe woman; all sharp angles and harsh edges, but beneath the surface it seems she’s kind. Their first impression of her seems to have been entirely wrong. Or at the very least they hope it was. 

“Someone needs to make sure you are not assassinated in your sleep.” 

“Ah, how sweet of you. Guard duty is so boring though, isn’t it? I hate patrolling, much less staring at a ward for hours on end.” 

The Seeker raises an eyebrow, intrigued, “Is that what you did before all of this?” 

“More or less. I am a protector of my clan, a warrior of the highest order. Or they would lead me to believe. It’s mostly me helping one of the elders herd the halla back into their proper place now.” 

“How does that work out for you?” 

“Poorly. I’m not that good at directions, particularly giving them to stubborn animals.” 

“You know how I feel then.” 

Both of them share a laugh at their plight, though afterwards they descend into an awkward silence. Unsure of whether the other really wants to actually talk. Everything is a bit overwhelming at the moment and in all honesty Calliope is too tired to play question games. Though that nightmare looms over their head they feel themself slipping back into the darkness as they lay there in the quiet. Cassandra is a good enough guard against the metaphorical, or perhaps very real, assassins that may come for them. And they assume if she isn’t they’ll just never know the difference. 


End file.
